911 Tribute
by Zepphyra.Snow.Storm
Summary: Alfred goes through emotional turmoil when the terrorists strike on 9/11. He is bearing it all alone, but he is not alone. And his little brother and a certain someone from across the pond will prove that to him. NOT a USUK fic (sorry, guys!), but there are some subtle implications that Alfred feels differently. M to be safe - for gore.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia... Well. Let's just say that for all the fangirls, it's a sad thing I don't. XD**_

**This chapter has been redone! All of the news... stuff, comes from actual news coverage I found on YouTube, at the time that this was actually happening.**

**I would love for you to comment, especially because I re-did this chapter. I want to know what you think. Any comments bashing the war, Bush, Americans/America, Muslims, Christians, Jews etc, or supporting conspiracy theories will be deleted. Please be respectful. :)**

**Lastly, in addition to a couple of other headcanons I'm incorporating in this fic, one of them (a very common one) is how the personified countries have that "feeling" that they are a country, that extra little bundle of emotions from their people. And also, (this might count as a 2nd headcanon but it's super common as well) the countries feel it physically if they are attacked, although it doesn't take much of a toll on them unless it were to be, say, the bombing of Japan.**

_**Enjoy!**_

_**~Xsnow~stormX~**_

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"It's 8:52 here in New York. I'm Brian Gumble. We understand there has been a plane crash on the southern tip of Manhattan. You're looking at the World Trade Centers. We understand that a _plane_ has crashed in the World Trade Center, we don't know anything more than that…"

Alfred stared at the TV, horror-struck. _This is awful…_ But he kept watching, now mesmerized by the news castors rattling off information as it happened.

"Obviously a major fire there, and there has been some sort of explosion. We don't fully know the details. There is one report, as of yet unconfirmed, that a plane has hit the World Trade Center, and you can see there is smoke there coming out of at least both sides of the building…"

Alfred flipped through some more news channels for a few minutes, listening to the reporters and the eye-witnesses speaking of the crash. He grimaced. He would have known about it anyway. That pang in his chest, the inexplicable fear inside him, yet not belonging to him, would have told him.

Then the unthinkable happened.

"So you have no idea—"

"Oh there's another one! Another plane just hit! Oh my gosh, another plane has just hit a-another building, it flew right into the middle of it! Explosion. My God, it flew right into the middle of the building."

"It went into the East tower?"

"Yes, yes. Right into the middle of the building.

Numbly, Alfred changed channels again. His hand, as though it had a mind of its own, crept up his chest as though he could possibly hold and soothe his heart. The pain and fear—he couldn't tell anymore if those feelings belonged to him, or to the people—ran deep into his bones, now.

"It does not appear that there is any kind of an effort yet. Now remember—Oh my God!"

Alfred vaguely felt tears wetting his face, hearing the gasps and cries of the studio workers.

"That looks like a second plane! That is just—"

"I just saw the plane go in, it looks like it exploded."

"We just saw another plane coming in from the side."

"Yeah (unintelligible)"

"Yeah, so that's the second explosion."

The blonde readjusted his glasses and scooted to the edge of the couch. Anger rose in him like acidic bile. His emotions were so mingled with those of the general populace that the line between "Alfred F. Jones" and "America" was gone.

"It seems to be on purpose."

(Background: "Oh my goodness, was that a plane?")

"It's obvious now, I think, that there's a second plane just crashed into the World Trade Center, I think we have a terrorist act—"

He turned off the TV.

America's pain was so great he thought he might die. But his rage was greater. He wanted to kill, and kill, and torture, and keep killing. Of course this would accomplish nothing, without a specific goal. Already he was analyzing, strategizing, conning and blaming.

But America's compassion and concern for his people was greater than any of his most vengeful feelings or thoughts. He quickly threw on a fire fighting uniform and grabbed a gas mask. He would save as many as he could now. Retaliation could wait.

Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't yet know of the Pentagon, or flight 93. He raced out the door, wiping tears of pain and rage away from his eyes. He struggled against the nausea writhing around inside his stomach. As he dashed out the door, he held his head up high. It was an attack yes, but this was no reason to lose himself completely. There was always, always the future.

Because he, Alfred F. Jones, was and is, the United States of America.

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**Thank you for reading! Please review! I've slightly redone chapter 2 now as well, so tell me what you think, yeah? :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Redone! Edited! Finally! **

**Disclaimer is in chapter 1**

**Please let me know your opinion of this chapter :)**

_**Enjoy~**_

_**~Xsnow~stormX~**_

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Alfred flipped open his phone as he rolled into the parking garage. _No calls from the boss yet._ He hit 2 on speed dial. Those little kids at that school or whatever could take a backseat, right? Before the blonde could even press send, his phone was vibrating.

Alfred answered his boss, and said, before the president could even greet him, "I'm already on my way."

"To where?"

"Isn't it obvious? To NYC!" Alfred spat.

He dismounted his motorcycle on the top level. He turned the volume on his phone up as he stepped into the awaiting helicopter.

"… Alfred…" the president's voice softened over the phone. "There were some… other casualties, in the space between when the planes hit and now…"

"What?" Alfred could feel his heart drop through the floor. The next voice came out as a choked whisper, and he could only pray the boss could hear him over the roar of the copter. "Who? Where?"

"The Pentagon…" the president paused at his partner's gasp. "and near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. While they were all plane crashes, the one in Pennsylvania crashed into a field."

Alfred sighed, relieved, just a bit, that _that_ flight at least didn't crash into a building and kill more people.

His boss continued. "I'd like you to go to the Pentagon—"

"I'm already headed to the trade centers! There's still a chance to save so many people there!" Alfred hung up. He would see the president soon enough anyway.

Alfred couldn't see the towers through the smoke. The sunny morning sky had become an overcast grey. The closer he got, the direr he realized the situation had become. The North Tower was swaying, swaying, and he knew it wouldn't hold for much longer.

Alfred _couldn't _wait for the helicopter to land. Once he decided he was close enough, he jumped, almost beside the towers.

That was when Alfred realized that he wasn't the only one jumping. All around him he saw people jump from collapsed, flaming levels, choosing to die from the fall rather than burning to death. Or, heaven forbid, being crushed and worse, when the buildings fall. Then that sickening splat as they landed on the pavement like flies on a windshield. Occasionally they even fell into neighboring buildings.

A horrible, wretched cry tore from Alfred's lungs as he reached out to a man falling right next to him. The man grabbed his hand and clung to him for dear life when Alfred drew him closer.

Just as Alfred and the man hit the ground and the parachute was detached, the North Tower did just what he had feared. He was suddenly up in the air again, thrown through a nearby building and knocked unconscious.

He was lucky that he was blown into that building. It almost sheltered him somewhat from the blast of the collapsing tower, which imploded upon itself. Suddenly the smoke was like fog and the ashes were like rain. Office papers snowed down on the city and odds and ends of scrap metal had lodged themselves into buildings and busses and cars—sometimes even people.

Alfred sat up. He blinked dizzily, coming to, when the gravity of the situation hit him. Alfred ran out into the street finding it to be grey and paper laden, with cars over-turned and buildings absolutely wrecked to hell.

He ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He had to get in that last tower… He was almost at the entrance… He had some time yet…

It was dark and it was loud and it was smoky. He pulled his gas mask over his face. If only he had brought his helmet… But he was a country. He would be okay. Police and firemen were ushering people out to safety. Alfred tore through the first few floors, trying to free everyone that could be trapped under debris. One of the floors above was collapsing. There was chaos. Alfred picked up the pace, helping an unconscious woman out of the building.

But then something odd happened.

"Don't go back in there!" Someone yanked on the back of his collar—hard—pulling him away.

That high-pitch, yet masculine voice was familiar.

Alfred looked back in irritation, snarling at whoever was holding him back from doing whatever he _needed_ to do. Then his eyes widened a bit.

"Mattie?" his voice had become a shocked whisper.

Matthew Williams offered a soft, sad smile. "You can't go back there, Al." he said in his usual soft tone. "If you die…" he faltered.

"I won't die!" Alfred returned lightly, giving his characteristic goofy grin. But it was all just a lie.

And his little brother saw right through it.

"Just because you're "the great United States of America" doesn't make you any less mortal than me, or Arthur, or Francis, eh…" Alfred mad a face at the last name. "I mean, yeah, we could live forever if we wanted. Fatal wounds for normal people may not be fatal for us. But if that thing collapsed on you, even you'd be dead for sure. No two ways about it."

They had been walking away from the South Tower, but when Matthew said those last few words, Alfred stopped in his tracks. Matthew cringed, belatedly realizing his mistake. Alfred made a mad dash back to the tower.

But it was too late. America, for the first time since the Civil War—a time when his countrymen, his brothers, were killing each other—was brought to his knees.

_From the article, _"Accounting of the Dead"_ by Jesse Green_

_By November 2003, number of deaths was around 2,379 (trade centers only)_

_About 1,629 missing people identified_

_21,817 missing people remain… 40% of these have received death certificates by judicial decree_

_147 dead on flights 11 and 175_

_224 dead at Pentagon and in Pennsylvania_

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**Reviews are much appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yay! Now this section has been newly edited too! I added some things.**

**Umm. I'm as big a USUK/UKUS fan as anybody, it's just not that obvious in this fic. We discuss the FACE family in this chapter a bit (France, America, Canada, England for those who don't know), and I am of the school of thought that believes that although countries may be brothers, if they are independent from one another then they aren't brothers in the fraternal sense (so basically it might be "blood" but they don't feel any relationship like that). Get it? Kinda? Sorry if I made Canada slightly weird or OOC here. Oops. Oh well. No fucks given.**

**Allistor Kirkland is Scotland, the oldest out of the UK brothers.**

_**Enjoy~**_

_**~Xsnow~stormX~**_

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After uncovering the twelfth mangled limb, Matthew retched horribly, steam rising from his bile in the chilled morning air of Manhattan. Ground Zero, as it had come to be called, stank of fire, burnt flesh and death, and even the dogs required breaks lest they became so depressed they couldn't work.

"Hey," Alfred, full of concern, came up behind Matthew and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You sure you're up to this?"

"Of course!" The other blonde replied indignantly, but his tone was still unconvincing.

Alfred shook his head. He motioned for one of the workers on site to come over, an NY/NJ port authority.

"Take him somewhere he can rest a while. He's been at this for three hours." Ignoring Matthew's complaints, the officer led him away.

Alfred, though, continued to dig through the rubble. He hadn't heard from his boss since the attack yesterday, but that was to be expected. He was off placating the press and the public, seeing to the Pentagon, and the wreckage that was flight 93. So Alfred wiped the sweat off his brow and straightened his glasses, and kept looking; every now and then finding distinctive jewelry that could be used to identify a body, or sometimes (if he was lucky enough) an actual body part. He ignored some responders' gasping and yelling behind him when he heard it. Alfred didn't have time to waste. It was great if they were getting all excited because they had procured another identifiable person, but people shouldn't stop and crowd around to look. They had to keep searching the debris.

Someone was approaching him. He could hear footsteps stumbling through the wreckage but he ignored it, vaguely hoping it wasn't that soft-hearted Canadian again. _He means well, but he has a weak stomach._

"Alfred."

Said man whipped around, and immediately the other nation flung his arms around his neck. Alfred was stunned. He had no idea… no idea that _he _was coming all that way… just for him.

"Artie…" his throat tightened.

Arthur dragged Alfred away to somewhere in the scene where none of the workers, or press, or even civilians could see them. Alfred hadn't felt like this for over two hundred years. Not even after Pearl Harbor was the Englishman there to hold him and let him cry himself to sleep. No. That was the luxury of a child—a colony. But all that mattered was that Arthur was here now. And he didn't even scold him for breaking down like a pathetic little baby.

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The three of them sat around in a tent near Ground Zero. Alfred lay with his head in Arthur's lap, asleep. The Englishman looked down at him with concern marring his fair countenance, and his thick eyebrows nearly seemed to come together in the middle. He gently stroked the man's hair, which was almost identical to his own. He smiled softly at how Nantucket would spring up again every time he would pat it down. It had always done that.

"So… how did you get here before Alfred?" Arthur murmured. "He feels guilty that you got here before he did because this isn't even your country… not your responsibility." But he didn't say it in an accusatory way. His tone was unusually soft, as though Matthew might shatter like glass if he uttered a harsh word.

"Really?" Matthew looked shocked. "I had no idea, eh… I was just across the border at the time—in Novia Scotia, you know?—so I was really close… And I _know_ Al would do the same for me…"

"Well of course he would." Arthur stated in a matter of fact way. "But even though he may not seem like he minds, it really bothers him that you got there first. Obviously, he doesn't blame you." Arthur quickly added the last part at Matthew's crest-fallen look. "He is probably very grateful. The one he blames is himself… For even letting this happen."

"Heh." Matthew laughed humorlessly. "I feel like, even though I see him and talk to him more, you know him better than I do, eh?"

Arthur shrugged. "I've never claimed to…" He paused, a wistful look falling onto him, and he said, "I used to think I knew him. But that adorable, spirited little brother I used to know is… Well, he's not even my little brother anymore is he?" Arthur sighed, running his hands through his messy, straw colored hair. "We call ourselves a family—you, Alfred, I, and—oh, bloody hell, even that blasted frog! We call ourselves a family, but really, are we? No. Not anymore. I haven't been Alfred's brother since…"

"Arthur…"

He sighed, and then put on a smile. "Oh, don't mind me. You shouldn't have to listen to old men prattle on about nonsense."

Matthew laughed softly, tossing back his soft curls. "You're hardly old. I believe Mr. Wang is much older? And what of the eldest Kirkland, eh?" Matthew grinned.

Arthur raised his dense eyebrows. "Talking of world affairs, now, are we? What a big boy you've become." He scoffed. "Yao is a gentleman, certainly, and his tea is exquisite! You can't tell his age until he starts talking. And the way he nags Mr. Honda and the rest of his family is—"

"Just how you nag Alfred?"

"I would prefer to think I'm a bit better than that!" Arthur spluttered. "But Allistor…" His expression turned suddenly grim.

"Aww, is the big bad skirt wearing ginger bullying you again?"

"Oh, belt up, you git! Only I can insult my brothers like that!"

Alfred shifted and sniffed softly in Arthur's lap. The two currently awake exchanged a look with each other, both agreeing that they had become too loud.

"The bloody twit hasn't slept since yesterday… Hasn't even tried…" Arthur whispered softly, the concern in his voice belying his annoyed words.

They were silent for a while, listening to Alfred's sleep-breathing. Matthew shuffled around and found his cell phone. Eventually he crawled onto one of the cots that had been brought around for the workers.

Finally, Arthur said, "I have to leave tomorrow."

"So soon, eh?" Matthew asked, surprised.

"I barely got away from Her Majesty the Queen as it was… I must return tomorrow." The reluctance to leave, though, was evident.

"I see."

The two blondes fell silent again. Matthew sighed, taking off his glasses. One curly lock bounced gently into his face.

"We should be getting to sleep, eh? I mean, I have a lot of work to do tomorrow and you're leaving…"

"Yes…" Arthur gently shifted Alfred off of him.

"This time…" Matthew trailed off.

Arthur looked at him expectantly. Matthew wrung his hands, and did not look at the Englishman.

"Come now, Mattie, spit it out."

"Just—don't leave without saying goodbye to Alfred again!"

Arthur sighed and looked at Alfred guiltily.

"Yes, Matthew. I know."

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**I hope you enjoyed this! Please leave reviews! I thrive on reviews! Check out my profile and look at some other stuff I'm doing, as well :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay. So now ****_this _****chapter has been redone as well! :D Hmm. I got a bit carried away with Iggy in this chapter, but WHO CARES! :D Haha as much as I love America I love England too! And it was soo hard to make it seem like... they could be more than friends, but weren't. Dang. Oh well.**

**Also. I used some ideas you might notice toward the end that are from the doujin called "Independence Sky", definitely worth a read for USUK lovers. (Be warned, it's R-18 for graphic sex and gore!) It's definitely one of the more serious ones, as it takes place in the Revolution time period. What I want you to see there is the end, after all the shit both countries go through, England leaves, defeated, but still a fierce and proud warrior of the sea. England may disgust you a bit in the beginning but bear with it. I watched it on YouTube via SlifofinaDragonTaboo.**

**I got another vision of England from the YouTube video by Nightrain0808 called "Dark Hetalia - Axis VS Allies". This is also worth watching for the part about England vs Germany, and you'll see what kind of... feeling I'm getting at toward the end. It's worth watching anyway, the time line is highly historically accurate, the only mistake I found being that Germany's 2nd "rape of Belgium" happens before their invasion of France, and not after... Back to the point. I want you to see England fighting for his life, and then picture America (having been harassed by the Allies to join the war anyway) swooping in to help/save England after Pearl Harbor. :P**

**Well anyway. I hope you enjoy this now that it's been edited and such. :)**

_**Enjoy~**_

_**~Xsnow~stormX~**_

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People were running and screaming, with terror blatant on their faces. All around them were falling ashes, cinders and scattered papers. Behind them was a firestorm. In front of them it was a world modeled in grey-white dust. Bodies lightly sprinkled the streets like a gruesome shower from above. It may as well have been: the sun had hidden itself from view long ago. News castors' voices mixed unevenly with incomprehensible screams. Alfred knew he had to be strong, he knew he had to do something, but somehow his feet would not move. It was as though he were nailed to the pavement. Then there was blood on him. All over. The warmth soaked his clothing, and it dripped down from his saturated hair, obstructing his field of vision. A violent scream ripped from his already raw throat. As both towers fell, smoke and ash engulfed the city like a tsunami.

The sudden silence was unbefitting of the vision. From over the sound of his pitiful sobs, Alfred was barely able to discern another voice—a much more confident, and resolute voice.

"Let's roll!"

* * *

Alfred shot up from the cot. _Oh… I was asleep… _He gave a shuddering sigh, and wiped his damp face with the thin bed sheet. _Shit… Are my eyes all red 'n puffy now?_

"Argghhhuughgh…" he groaned loudly, pressing his palms to his face. _What time is it, even…?_

At that moment, with impeccable timing as always, Arthur casually strolled into the tent.

"Oh, Alfred, I was just coming to wake you!" the older nation smiled with false cheeriness.

"How long was I out?" Alfred struggled to throw the rest of his sleep-induced stupor off and wobbled in a slight daze to his feet.

"It's only six in the morning now." Arthur frowned, pressing him back down onto the bed. "You haven't been getting much sleep since…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Mother." Alfred waved him off so he could attempt standing again. He put on his glasses and ran his hands through his hair. _Arthur totally doesn't approve, but the hell with combing my hair. This is good enough. Not in the mood for his uppity ass right now…_ "I just need to get some coffee…" Alfred slurred.

Arthur scowled. "Alfred!" Alfred groaned inwardly. _Here we go… "_ You have to take care of yourself! Now fix yourself up a bit, you look like hell! Your boss is here so come out looking presentable."

Alfred scowled now, washing his face and throwing on some clean clothes and some deodorant. He wasn't a kid anymore, let alone England's colony. Sometimes that country could be _so_ annoying…

"Here," Arthur said, shoving a scone at him.

"Thanks…"

Sometimes though, the Brit really wasn't so bad.

"Do you want butter, jam?" Arthur asked.

Alfred shook his head, the fog in his mind clearing after a couple cups of coffee.

"Hey…" Arthur's thick eyebrows were knit together, and Alfred wanted to reach over and smooth out the lines being produced by the expression. "You were having a nightmare… weren't you?" Arthur asked.

Alfred raised his eyebrows. _This guy never talks gently to me. What's his deal? _"Yeah… I guess…" He shifted his look away from the Brit and to the entrance of the tent.

"Well…" Arthur looked away as well, shuffling around a bit. "If you continue having them, you should probably consult with a specialist…" Alfred scoffed at that. "And when you do have them… you could always just call me I me I mean you don't have to if you don't want to but if you want to I'll answer whenever because really I don't hate you or anything!" Arthur babbled.

Alfred burst out laughing at Arthur, who blushed and scowled. "Artie, I'm not laughing at you. Well, okay I am. But I mean, not really! Aw, shit!" Alfred was still laughing. Honestly laughing. He might have been having hysterics, but he wasn't about to think about that too much. He'd much rather believe that he was just laughing. "Ah! Artie…" he gasped, catching his breath. "What I'm tryin' to say is that… Well, thank you." Alfred smiled softly. "Really. I'll probably be giving you a call."

Arthur set his hands on his hips and, with a roll of his eyes, muttered, "You'd better get out there soon, you stupid prat. I told you earlier that your boss is here."

After breakfast, the blonde walked out and squinted in the bright light. He found his boss in the middle of a large crowd. Of course. Secret service was around, but not really right on top of him. As soon as Alfred was spotted, the president motioned for him to come over. He sluggishly made his way through everyone and to the president, where the man threw his arm around Alfred. They started walking closer to Ground Zero, and the president murmured in his ear,

"I know you're shook up pretty bad. We all are. But be strong for the people. I may have known you for only a little under a year but one thing is for sure—I know you are both brave and resilient." The president gave Alfred a pat on the back and went in front of a quickly growing group of people.

He had, at some point, picked up a bullhorn, and he now threw his arm around a fireman next to him.

"I want you all to know, that today, America is on bended knee in prayer for the people whose lives were lost here, for the people working here, and for their families. The nation stands with the good people of New York City, and New Jersey, and Connecticut as we mourn the loss of thousands of our citizens."

Someone from the crowd yelled, "I can't hear you!"

"I can hear you!" the president shouted back through the bullhorn. "I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you, and the people who knocked those buildings down will hear all of us soon!"

Everyone erupted in loud cheers, and they began chanting, "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" After thanking everyone, the president stepped away and back to Alfred's side. The blonde gave a small smile and the president said,

"Why don't you go see if Mr. Kirkland is still around? Then you can get back to work after seeing him off."

His eyes widening, Alfred nodded enthusiastically and he ran back into the area with the tents set up to find Arthur. He hadn't known he was leaving so soon… Arthur couldn't have left without saying goodbye again… could he?

"You bloody git, I'm right here!"

Alfred turned around to Arthur's surly green eyes.

"You knew I was looking for you?" he asked, bewildered.

"Well, pardon me, but I do believe I am the only Arthur you would be calling for so desperately." Although his expression was stern, Alfred could see a hint of laughing sarcasm in Arthur's eyes.

"I wanted to say goodbye…"

Arthur put a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"I can't tell you how many times that London has simply burnt to the ground... The bombing of the United Kingdom during World War Two lasted for 57 consecutive nights. In that bombing, in London alone, one million homes were destroyed, to say nothing of the casualties. Yet I stand here before you, a world power, and your... comrade of sorts, I hope." _Tch. You're denser than I sometimes pretend to be if you don't know how important you are to me..._ "There is a slogan we had in England at one time: "Keep Calm and Carry On". You'd do well to understand its meaning."

Alfred sighed. He felt a bit guilty for allowing himself to wallow in his depression. He sometimes forgot how strong England really was… He remembered, for a split second, burning emerald eyes of the greatest naval power in the world, and the wild blue eyes of a boy staring back, unblinking and unafraid. He'd been cloaked in red and gold and a feral grin full of mischief and confidence. His back looked so big back then, and Alfred had tried to grasp his hand to keep him from leaving… But the British Empire was something unreachable.

Even after the Revolution, he was the last to leave, giving America that last, bone chilling glare from the up on the rigging of his warship. Even defeated, he still stood tall, holding all the glory and splendor he'd had before, and all the wildness of the open sea. His emerald eyes shined bright, like fire. Tears of shame pricked Alfred's eyes. How could he be so weak?

Even during World War One, when America saw him again face to face for the first time after the war of 1812… And World War Two, when America watched London burn, he watched England rise out of the ashes with _those eyes_. They were still the eyes of a proud, fierce empire. Eyes that showed a wildness—now uncharacteristic of the so-called gentleman—that had yet to be tamed.

"I understand that you're feeling guilty, Alfred, I do." Arthur stated solemnly. "But you have to understand that it was your superiors' faults for not paying better attention to the imminent dangers of this terrorist threat. Also," Arthur smiled. "Don't completely discount Matthew, alright? I'm sure that you remember, but he entered the World War Two three years before you, and, blimey, he was quite the animal."

Arthur ruffled Alfred's hair, smiling softly. He was never this openly kind to Alfred. But Alfred supposed it didn't really matter, and with a wave, Arthur was gone.

"I wonder when I'll see those enormous caterpillar eyebrows again…?" _I wanna pet them._

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**And that's that! Please review! I have one more chapter to edit. But reviews are very important!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Finally it's all edited! Wow. That took longer than it should have. Oh well.**

**I have this headcanon that England's cooking is actually delicious. (Have you ever been to England? Have you ever tasted/seen any of their purely English pastries/bar food? Two words: Holy. Shit. In a good way though.)**

_**Enjoy~**_

_**~Xsnow~stormX~**_

* * *

An alarm sounded loudly in a pitch black room. The time read 4:00. Alfred groaned, one of his arms flailing in the vague direction of the sound. Eventually, it stopped. _Time to get up…_ A very sleepy hero thought numbly after turning off the alarm. Dragging himself out of bed, he began to dress quickly, lacing up a pair of combat boots and grabbing his bomber jacket on his way out of the room.

"Wake up, guys! Wake up! We're taking off in an hour, all of us!" He shouted to a bunch of groggy young men and women in the next few rooms.

Alfred strode purposefully into the mess hall and threw his jacket onto a table. _Yelling took all of my energy… If I could just make it to the coffee…_

"Good morning, sir."

Alfred grunted his response to the agent. He was at the moment sipping his scalding hot coffee while chewing toast at the same time. For a brief moment, the thought of how England would carefully prepare a breakfast of tea and scones flitted across his mind, and he felt regretful. But what exactly he regretted, he would not allow himself to find out.

"Your bombing coordinates will be transmitted to you before takeoff. Each person in your formation will receive coordinates that they are not to go outside 10 kilometers of. You have been debriefed already on the rest."

"Understood. And yes, I have."

Alfred threw on his bomber jacket and was heading out the door, but accidentally bumped into someone entering the mess hall. He raised his eyebrows, mildly surprised.

"Matthew? What are you doing here?"

Matthew shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I wanted to say bye and good luck," he said in his soft-spoken way. Alfred suddenly felt a surge of disappointment. He hoped it didn't show on his face. Matthew chuckled softly. "I know that I'm not Arthur, but I will say goodbye for him as well, okay? And," Matthew continued with a knowing smirk. "You will see him again at the United Nations meeting about this… terrorist issue."

"Tch." Alfred could feel his cheeks flush slightly. "What makes you so sure I wanna see that uptight British idiot? Other than to laugh at his enormous, fuzzy eyebrows, of course. I swear, those things will crawl away one of these days!" Alfred grinned mischievously.

Matthew sighed in annoyance, rolling his pale, violet blue eyes. _It's a miracle neither of us inherited Artie's bushy brows… Just look at Hong Kong and Australia! _The thought almost made Alfred smirk, but Matthew's suddenly very serious expression startled Alfred into being serious as well. "I wanted to let you know that Canada will lend you its support. You need only ask. I will give you my personal support, even if you just need someone to lean on." America tried to object, but Canada pressed on, obviously not deterred this time like he usually was by the loud American. "I don't care if you're a hero, Alfred. We all need someone like that sometimes. I—not "I" Canada, but I as your little brother know that even you need someone like that sometime. And I can be here for you more than Arthur can. After all, I'm just across the border."

Despite himself, Alfred had to smile. He grabbed the wispy Canadian into a big bear hug.

"Thanks, Mattie."

Without looking back or saying any further goodbye, Alfred strode confidently onto the flight deck, pulling his black leather gloves out of his pockets.

He only paused once to get a Coca-Cola out of one the vending machines—you know, for the road.

"Alright, guys!" He grinned boldly at the people in his flight formation, lined up and ready for him. People in other hangers were readying as well, at this exact same time. "So once we get the coordinates, and the permission to take off…. We'll take off!"

They all rolled their eyes and one woman laughed. Alfred's response was sticking his tongue out like a little kid.

"Seriously though. Don't go more than two miles from the coordinates you're given. 'Kay?" He said this more sternly.

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, let's fuck these crazies up!"

"…You don't sound cool… Just stop it…" One of the guys said as he trudged to his bomber jet.

Alfred laughed, long and loud. Eventually the laughter dissipated into a soft smile. His hand wandered up to his heart. His grief was dissipating. The people were moving on, too. Dwelling on thoughts like, "Where are we going now that this has happened?" wasn't his style.

He opened his Coke and drank some before getting into the plane. Then he hopped eagerly into the cockpit and put his big helmet on. He missed it when he could just wear his goggles, it was so much easier to drink his Coke like that.

But never mind the Coke now. America grinned. Those terrorists would be hurting when he was through with them.

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**I hope no one who reads this would ever seek to desecrate the honor and pride of an American soldier, or a soldier of their own country. Especially a deceased one. It shouldn't matter whether or not the cause of fighting is supported or not. Support and pray for the troops. Don't speak ill of the dead. Remember the fallen.**

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